


Far Away from Fair

by KuraiTsuky



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Porn, Emotional Hurt, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Betrayal, love and heartbreak, wild west setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23748244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuraiTsuky/pseuds/KuraiTsuky
Summary: Five years for one, three for the other, and still here it remains, this something that binds them like a chain.A chain that not even the desert winds of the Frontier can rust.
Relationships: Bret Hart/Shawn Michaels
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34





	Far Away from Fair

**Author's Note:**

> The title and a couple of lines come from Billie Eilish's "No Time to Die" which inspired the fic.

The stranger is dressed in black, despite the heat. A wide brimmed hat pulled down to cover his eyes and a dusty scarf pulled all the way up to cover his mouth and nose. The only detail of colour is a faded pink ribbon that flies in the breeze from under the hat, barely holding thick black curls in a low tail. There’s no more need for identification, anyone who’s anyone all the way from Mexico to the furthest, frozen parts of the Federal Dominion knows what that colour means when it’s in the hair of a man.

Not that the riffle, crossed against the thighs of the rider doesn’t betray his identity. Shawn, from he’d been drinking, slumped down against the back wall of the chapel curses and picks up his own hat, momentarily taken off in the shade, covering his face as best as he can while moving as little as possible. Today had to be the day when he chose a white hat, he thinks, feeling something bitter twisting in his stomach.

He looks around, but the man is alone, or so he appears. That is surprising, though many things could have changed since the last time he saw him. The pitch black stallion looks fresh enough that could possibly hold on to next village, but today is not Shawn’s lucky day, and the horse is stopped by the Saloon. A gloved hand reaches out to lower the scarf, and a moment later the man dismounts, slinging the rifle over his back on the way in. From where he’s hiding, Shawn can’t help but take a peek, catching a glimpse of his face. Bret Hart looks more tanned than he did three years ago, when he saw him last, but that’s the only difference. The line of his mouth is still turned down into a scowl, and there are no laughter lines in his face either. He walks heavily over the crooked planks and doesn’t bother to use his hands to open the doors, busy as they are taking the hat off, rather pushing with his wide shoulders as though he owns the whole damned place.

It’s good to see the man’s arrogance is still alive and well, Shawn thinks with a nasty smile crossing his face.

He’s tempted to go in after Hart, but he is dressed far too flashily to be able to blend in, the chaps alone are enough to give him away. So instead, he circles the Saloon from the other side and takes a seat under a tree, watching from the shade, the dark shadowy spot that’s leaning against the corner. A glass of whisky in hand, and even darker eyes looking to all the exits. His other hand is tapping the long barrel that lies just so very close to the Peacemaker on his thigh.

No matter how much some part of him, truly wishes to pull out his own gun and take a shot from where he’s sitting, the more reasonable side of him, that Shawn’s discovered in this last few years, is kind of boring, reminds him of how quick the Hitman is on the draw. From this position too, he wouldn’t get a good enough angle to take him down with one shot and he’s also seen how fast Hart can react to an injury.

Eventually, he grows bored of watching the man out of the window, and rises to his feet, throwing one last look over his shoulder before walking off to look for his gracing Appaloosa, Sweet Music. He’s too distracted looking for his girl that he doesn’t notice the pair of eyes glued to his back as full lips close around the rim of a glass of whiskey.

  
  


He’s alone this time around, it should bother him more, Bret thinks. But since that last conversation, and he’s calling it that out of familial duty, with the Bulldog, he’s not exactly in the mood for company, nor would he be good one. He eyes the fresh corpses on the noose and smiles under the scarf, at least he’s pretty sure he’s got a smile on his face. From under the brim of his hat he can begin to see a small village appear from the dust. For a moment, Bret thinks about stopping, letting his horse rest, maybe have a drink himself, but then shakes his head. They are making a good time, and even if he has to wait for Owen, he’d rather do it in Yuma.

Then, something flashes on the corner of his vision, a white hat, plopping down onto dark blond curls he recognizes. Something freezes on his chest, if it were anybody else, Bret would think it was his heart. But five years on, and he’s quite sure he no longer has one. The man, badly attempting to hide himself, made sure of it. He’s tempted to be the bigger man here, just guide his horse away, take a couple of breaths and move on, but he’s a Hart, and Harts have never been particularly good at moving on. So instead, Bret pulls his horse over, making a stop at the Saloon and dismounting to much fear and amazement.

Back in the day, he would have been flattered by the awe reflected in the faces of the locals, nowadays though, it’s just another thing that tires him, that makes him feel old and weary.

He takes the corner, and a bottle of cheap whiskey, watered down of course, least he grows too drunk to properly defend himself, since today is one of those days in which a bottle won’t exactly be enough. He’s been carrying the spectre of Shawn Michaels for years, since that night, when the Outlaw took his heart and his pride. Now, now that he’s seen the man, even if it was just a tiny glimpse, the ghost is more present than ever. Though that might have to do with the fact that the former cowboy is looking at him.

They were always too bad at being apart, even when being together hurt like hell. A part of him he doesn’t want to acknowledge, wants to go out there to perhaps talk, to maybe, bury himself on that body he used to know better than he knew himself. The rest of him, the Deputy Marshal that derives pleasure from hunting criminals just like the man outside of the window, only wants to use his rifle, make his legend proud, and finally put Michaels away. He’s not sure which side is louder, so instead, he eyes the exits as he takes another sip, repressing a shiver. Those eyes don’t leave him for hours still, and he’s not entirely sure about what to do. The part of him that simply wants to shoot the man, excise him from his life, burn him to ash and add his head to the ever-growing legend of the Hitman seems to mellow as he consumes the alcohol leaving only the other part of him, the desperate, hurt part, that still longs for an explanation, any explanation at all that might justify the two bullets that his brother took out of his chest, where the love of his life put them.

The truth is he’d loved Shawn more than he’d ever loved anyone.

Bret never thought to care for a man in such a way, but Shawn had been something else, something more, an image of desire made flesh. Too good of a lie that he’d swallowed it hook, line and sinker. He’d wanted the other man with a desperation nobody else had yet managed to elicit from him again, and for it, he’d believed lie after lie, ignoring his instincts and experience just to bury himself in the other. It was his own damned fault, Bret knows, for trusting an enemy, a former lover that still made his stomach flutter. He doesn’t deserve his reputation, not with the way he’d fallen like a lusty child. But the fault doesn’t just lay with him. He’d loved a liar, probably still loved him, if he was being honest with himself, a magnificent liar. A cruel man that had taken the heart he’d offered and crushed it in his fist. Then shot him twice.

And yet, much to his shame, Bret still can’t forget him. Married and with children as he is now, he still wakes up with images of the warm blue eyes that turned out to be a façade, he dreams of burying his fingers in long waves of blonde, unspeakably soft hair, of planning a future he should have know they would never be able to have. He feels like a hypocrite, like a traitor, but still can’t help himself.

Against his will, his eyes wander to the figure badly hidden under the tree shade out of the window. As the man gets up, dusting his chaps, readjusting his pistol belt, turning and walking away, something twists in him. It might be the alcohol speaking, the bottle emptying without his say so, but Bret isn’t so sure. It’s not like he managed to keep his wits about him before, when Shawn Michaels was concerned. So instead, he gets up, throws some coins at the bar, and walks out.

The mid afternoon sun blinds him, but he doesn’t care, even if he cannot see, he will find Michaels, he has always done so before.

Appropriately, they finally come to a head at the graveyard. If he was more like the man in front of him, Bret would have some witticism prepared. But even though he can appreciate the irony, there is no reference he could make to it that wouldn’t sound bitter. In the end he doesn’t have to say anything. Shawn does it for him.

“You should get on with it then.”

His voice is rougher, Bret notices, and when he turns around quickly sees that he’s no longer clean shaven, but the rest seems to be the same. Even his eyes seem as guarded as the last time he saw them, as they watched from above, like a cruel god, how he bled.

He’s not sure how he ends up in the graveyard, a bitter smile upon his lips when after a while, a dark shadow appears to loom over him. Even with his back turned he recognizes Bret. The air is crackling around them, but not like it used to. It’s not passion what makes his hair rise, or at least, not just passion. Shawn cannot find a reason either, to explain why he turns around, dreading as he is, to have to confront the man. But the snort sort of makes him want to do it, if only out of spite. Whatever he was meaning to say though, falls apart when he locks eyes with the Hitman. They are darker than he remembers, and it isn’t just because of the hat. From afar he hadn’t seen the darkness that now clouds them, but even in the early afternoon sun, they almost make him shiver.

Before, they could be cold, they could be calculating, but they were never ever cruel, now though, now Shawn isn’t so sure.

“You are many things, tragic ain’t one of them.” Bret says, his voice clipped, expression stoic, and it almost makes him laugh. Tragedy has been his constant companion for so long, they are good friends by now. He’d tell him, but that would feel more personal than a confession. And even if he has bared his sins to the Lord, he’s not ready to do so to the Hitman.

“What is this then?” Bret drawls “the lay-down before a hit, or just right after?”

Now it’s Shawn’s time to snort. It’s a good lesson in humility, here he’d thought everybody from San Francisco to Waco had heard of the implosion of the Degenerates and his own Fall. He has a need to explain himself, but it might just be his pride.

“Neither, haven’t had a hit in over three years.” Not technically true, but he’s not counting his lonely pickpocketing.

“I find that hard to believe.” Says the Hitman a hint of smugness creeping into his words. Shawn closes a fist out of habit.

“I don’t give a damn what you believe.” Grunts Shawn feeling his control fraying at the edges. And the conversation, stand-off more like, has only just begun. This is the effect Bret Hart has on his temper. The man smiles something that barely qualifies as such, and he grits his teeth, trying truly hard to not throw the punch.

“We both know you are a better liar than that” Bret sneers, and the words aren’t what make him finally let go of his restraint.

It doesn’t connect, instead, somehow, the Hitman steps out of the way and before he can blink, his back is on fire and he’s on his knees.

  
  


Bret sees the fist coming a mile away, barely has to move to avoid it. ‘Sloppy’ he thinks, blocking the next move and grabbing the blond’s arm with both hands while pulling him in to knee him in the stomach. He would have laughed and given pointers, once upon a time, now though, now he drives the other man to his knees, and kicks him in the back as he dry heaves. He then grabs the hair, wanting to see the other man’s face, but it’s a mistake. Those blue eyes, so full of pain make him hesitate, and he gets a punch to the stomach for his trouble. As Bret doubles over, his left leg is kicked from under him, driving him to one knee. Now they are at the same height again, both breathless and hurt. It doesn’t seem fair, the Law-man thinks, that Shawn always manages to pull him down to his level.

But life, life is far away from fair. And that must be why, instead of throwing some more punches, Shawn Michaels kisses him square on the lips. Instinctively, Bret reciprocates before his brain can process why it’s such a bad idea. Before he can remember where this same scenario took him to last time. Somehow, all the hurt and heartbreak doesn’t matter as much when Shawn’s tongue is back in his mouth. He promised himself he wouldn’t fall like this again.

Instead, he grabs the blond waves and pulls Shawn closer.

He’s made promises before, of hatred, of death and of love, too hard to distinguish right now, when Shawn’s lips are pressed so perfectly against his own. Bret buries his still gloved fingers on Shawn’s dark blond waves, pulling so he can look into those limpid blue eyes that still steal his breath away. Is this love, he wonders, undoing the chaps, then the tight pants that encase his once lover’s strong thighs.

  
  


Shawn looks at the bowed head of the Hitman, his hat has fallen off somewhere, and some of his black curls are draped over his face, his mouth is opened, and he finds himself looking intently at those pink lips he used to know so well. He’s not sure where the impulse comes from, lies, he knows well enough even if he’d rather not admit to it. So instead of overthinking it, he grabs a handful of hair and smashes his lips against Bret’s.

He shouldn’t be doing this, Shawn thinks, it’s less than Christian, and this man is more than just a Hart, he’s the _Hitman_. The grip in his hair is harsher than he remembers, and for a moment, he remembers what a bad idea this is. But as soon as Bret’s fingers find the edges of his pants all thoughts of rebelling, of stopping, leave his mind. He needs this, more than he ever thought he would. Bret had always been annoyingly kind before, always a gentleman, always taking his time, making him feel loved in a way that both attracted him and made him feel revulsion. Now, there is no softness to be found in the other’s touch. Bret is harsh, domineering, and powerful in a way that even at the top of his game, Shawn never managed to be.

He moans into the kiss, as gloved hands slip into his pants, squeezing his ass with reckless abandon. The kiss itself is bruising, a battle more like. And he finds he has no problem surrendering. One of his legs, the good one, lifts to circle Bret’s waist as the law-man bends him to his back’s limit. It hurts, almost a little too much, but not enough to break him. Even so, there is something intoxicating about surrendering to the Hitman, something dark, that feels like punishment and tastes like pleasure. He’s never liked pain, he’s never minded it for the good of his cause, but he’s never sought it. In this past few years, Shawn has become quite acquainted with pain, but not like this, even as Bret undoes the laces in his pants leaving him all naked and exposed under the late afternoon sun, this pain could break him for good. And he wants it.

He deserves it.

He deserves to break. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes as Bret devours his chest, rage and passion becoming one on the other’s lips. Moans spill wantonly from his mouth, as he surrenders. Guilt and hate and love far too strong for him to differentiate. He needs Bret, more than he’s ever needed anything or anyone. He despises Bret and longs to crush him, more than he’s ever wanted to do anything else in his life. Is this what burning feels like, Shawn wonders, almost screaming, as Bret takes him into his mouth. Once upon a time, everything Bret Hart did was loving, it was almost delicate, making him feel special even when he was lying through his teeth. To the point he conned himself. Now, now there is hatred, a desire that threatens to break them both, and Shawn feels at home.

  
  


He’s too harsh, Bret thinks, but something in him eggs him on, or maybe it’s just the face Shawn makes when he bites at his chest, squeezing his nipples just a little to hard. He’s never been so close to loosing control as he is now. Appropriate, he thinks vindictive, the blond hasn’t earned his kindness, quite the opposite in fact, though that might just be the impatience talking. It has been so long, but his body still moves, still reacts to Shawn’s as though they were together yesterday. His cock is already hard and dripping inside his pants by the time he makes his way to the other’s. He’s bitten his way down here, Shawn’s chest red and marked, he looks at it in bitter satisfaction for a moment before bending over his dick, taking him onto his mouth.

He sucks hard, as he’s been doing everything else, eliciting a high pitched moan. He runs his teeth along the girth with just enough force for it to be a threat but Shawn just buckles against his lips, arching on the ground, as he bobs, hollowing his cheeks and applying more pressure with his lips, squeezing Shawn’s balls in his hand. Shawn’s taste is the same as always, and by God, he’s missed it. Almost as much as he’s missed the man himself. He doesn’t let the blond finish between his lips, instead he pulls away, smiling at the whine it elicits and undoes the buttons on his breeches. His cock is heavier in his hand than it’s been in a long time, and grows even harder under Shawn’s almost fully blown eyes. He spits in his free hand a couple of times and wets his dick with it.

Bret then pushes his own pants further down before returning to the other’s body. Poking and prodding at his entrance, he’s tight and Bret’d like to imagine it’s because Shawn hasn’t taken anyone else in all this time. But he wouldn’t lie to himself like that, not anymore, so instead, he rubs his now wet cock against the crack of Shawn’s ass and uses he mix of spit and his own arousal to help his fingers slid inside him. Bret doesn’t spend too much time opening the blond up, instead, once he can move two fingers in with ease, he takes them out and begins to push in with his cock. He’s so tight it’s almost painful for him too, though that doesn’t deter him. Something tells him, by the way Shawn cages his hips between his thighs, that the Outlaw is on board with this.

He bottoms out with some difficulty, leaning his forehead against Shawn’s shoulder as he tries to calm his breath. His heart is pulsing in his ears, but as he recoils and begins to push in, slowly reaching a rhythm they both remember, his own heartbeat is drowned by Shawn’s moans in his ears. They almost sound like the apology he once swore he’d never accept. Like the lies he swallowed, and he doesn’t know how true anything that comes off the man’s mouth can possibly be, but this, he thinks snapping his hips harder, this is real. Even if everything else about Shawn was a pretty lie, his pain, his pleasure, as they mix in his face, are real. The way his fingers dig into his back, leaving scratch after scratch, is real. He almost hopes some of those scratches would scar, just so he can have proof that this happened somewhere other than in his imagination.

Shawn relishes in the burn, closes his eyes for a moment to stop the tears from falling, Bret’s not torn him but it is close. If it were anyone else… he’d killed for less, and even as he thinks how much he has earned this pain, it’s still a bit of a coin toss between his desire, his love, and his hate. Then the Hitman starts moving, fucking him with deep, long thrusts that make him feel like they might reach his very core. He forgets even his name, as he arches on the dirt, biting his own wrist to stop the moans before he forgets to do that as well and buries his fingers in Bret’s strong back, whining in his ear. He begins to move his hips in unison, his nails raking up and down the Hitman’s back. But it’s not enough, he needs more.

Shawn, makes an effort, taking his bloodied fingers off the other’s flesh and using the ground as leverage, manages to turn them both, until he’s on top. Planting both hands on Bret’s tanned chest, he starts to move. The new position hurts his back, but he now can see all the faces Bret makes as he rides him. Shawn moans desperately trying to keep his eyes open so he doesn’t lose a single tic. He wants to remember each and every one forever.

He comes with a scream that, he’s quite sure, has been heard by the whole village, just as the man bellow him, pushes upwards and fills him with his seed, a rough groan tearing itself from his throat. Dizzy and light-headed, Shawn practically passes out.

He lays exhausted on Bret’s wider, muscled chest, the bronze skin glistening with sweat, as big brown eyes look unfocussed at the setting sun. He’s proud to say he’s the only man to ever bring the Hitman down to this level. It is harder to accept how far he himself has fallen. He would fall even harder if somehow, somewhat, he’d be able to keep Bret here. Shawn smiles a bitter smile. He was never good enough for the Hart hero, the heir, only his façade, his lies, vaguely reached that image of perfection the other so desperately clung to. It had been easy, in that moment, to pull the trigger, to humiliate the man. If only out of spite.

Out of the knowledge that the real him, sad, messed up Shawn Michaels, would never truly amount to much in mighty Bret Hart’s eyes.

Now though, now the both of them are trapped in this hell. Together and oh, so far apart. Shawn wants to laugh at the irony. By attempting to make the Hitman fall to his level, he’d managed to lose him, he’d managed to lose everything. And yet, here they are, roasting together in hell.

  
  


He looks down at the man, skin dusty from when they’d rolled around in the dirt, eyes hazy and hair frizzy and has the urge to kiss him again, slower this time, with more feeling and less lust. He doesn’t.

Now that he’s sated, his wits seem to have returned along with all the pain. ‘You were my life’ he wants to say, ‘I love you’ he thinks so hard, he almost believes the other will hear. But Bret doesn’t say a word either. It would be a truth much too painful. One Shawn doesn’t deserve.

No matter, however, even if no words are exchanged they still lay there until the sky turns purple and begins to darken. It is fully night by the time they begin to dress up under the dim, village lights. They do so in silence. Dusty clothes over dusty skin, a hat recovered from the ground, the other, surprisingly, from the top of a tall cactus. The Hitman redoes his ponytail as best he can and recovers his rifle, then watches as Shawn gives up on trying to put his chaps back on. Then, then he mounts his horse and rides.

Bret almost turns, almost looks at the gorgeous young man that is saying goodbye and abandons his mission, his life. He almost surrenders, as he did so many other times in the past. The scars on his chest tingle angrily at the very thought. No matter how much he loves Shawn, he will never trust him again. And so, Bret urges his horse forward and forces his head to keep on looking ahead, instead of backwards at the devil disguised as an angel that would see him fall once more.

He’s not sure if it is the scars or something else, something deeper, what truly makes his chest hurt. But in either case, it is something he cannot afford. He closes his eyes, a lonely tear dropping over his cheek until it meets the scarf, glad that Shawn won’t see him cry.

  
  


He watches Bret leave as the moon shines, bright and full over them. He has no right to ask for anything, but if he could, if he’d dared, he would have asked for one last look. Something to remind him of the fact that at some point he mattered to the other man.

Instead, he just stands there in silence, a pale shade in the night, as the black rider upon his black steed, slowly vanishes along the desert shadows. And Shawn Michaels would give almost anything not to feel like he has taken something this time around. A piece of him he will never be able to get back.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I wrote explicit sex or finished any fic at all, so I hope I didn't come off as too rusty.   
> Also, I've no clue if at the end of the 19th century Canadians (who weren't canadians yet, I know) could be made into US Marshals, but it was necessary for the story, so here they could.   
> Please review.


End file.
